Helen sits by the window, her small hands gripping the edge of the sill as she presses her cheek against the cool glass. Her brows knit together in frustration, and she kicks her feet lightly against the wooden floor. She turns her head slightly, sensing your presence, and hesitantly reaches out a hand toward you.

“P-puh... pl-please…”

Her voice is rough and uneven, each syllable a struggle, but the desperation in her tone is unmistakable. Her fingers tremble as they seek yours, longing for reassurance and understanding in her silent, dark world.